


Mama, I killed a man

by Jennichi



Series: Bancoran/Maraich 30 Kisses Challenge [9]
Category: Patalliro!
Genre: 30 Kisses Challenge, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Theme #4 our distance and that person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 04:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennichi/pseuds/Jennichi
Summary: They both have pasts, of course. Every human does. Ghosts tend to glide back into your life when you least expect, and they’ve dealt with plenty of them. It’s never been simple.





	Mama, I killed a man

They both have pasts, of course. Every human does. Ghosts tend to glide back into your life when you least expect, and they’ve dealt with plenty of them. It’s never been simple.

It was Bancoran’s uncle who dealt the most damage: psychological, physical, wrenching. Yet in the end they could leave him behind. Maraich still remembers the way Keene screamed after them, the way he ordered Bancoran: _Kill me! Finish it!_ They left him to rot or recover of his own devices.

But, no, it’s the _dead_ ghosts that never disappear.

Today the fog has settled in, filling all of London with white wisps. The weathermen are protesting that it just isn’t possible, but there it is. There hasn’t been something like this in a hundred years, and it lacks the suffocating taint of pollution. The city is in a mild panic, but it’s less apparent because nearly everyone is having their breakdown quietly at home. Even MI-6 has sent out an order that only necessary personnel are to risk the trip in to the offices.

Bancoran should be fuming at the inactivity, but he’s fallen into one of his rare melancholies instead. Maraich can guess the reason. Ban is draped in a chair by the window, staring out blankly at the wall of white. Maraich watches him watch the fog.

Bancoran has already finished one bottle of wine, and he’s steadily working his way through a second. There’s a stub of rolled cigarette dangling from his fingers, smoke drifting up, but he’s long ago forgotten it.

Surprisingly, it’s Bancoran who breaks the silence. “I hate fog.”

“I know.”

Maraich had been sitting beside the chair. At times like this he likes to stay close, but he doesn’t want to smother. Now he turns awkwardly to hug Ban’s leg. He presses his face against Bancoran’s thigh and can feel the unnatural tenseness in the muscles under his cheek. “I know,” he repeats.

Bancoran threads his fingers through his curls, tighter and tighter until its almost painful. “Why?” He asks at last, and his voice has lost its resonance, become thin and confused.

Why do the people you love betray you? Why do they stop loving you? Why is the world unfair?

“I don’t know.”

Then Bancoran sighs and tugs on his fist-full of hair, pulling Maraich up and into his lap. He’s intent now on blocking out the past, and he’s never been afraid of using sex as a weapon. Maraich allows it—he’s never had much willpower against Bancoran, and now isn’t the time to take a stand.

There are more comfortable places for this than an over-stuffed relic from another age, but there are worst places as well. They spill out over the edges, a sturdy tangle of white limbs and wrinkled fabrics. Bancoran’s black hair mixes with Maraich’s red-gold, and for a moment Maraich wonders when was the last time he swept the floor.

Bancoran always blankets his smaller lover, as if he intends to hide him, or perhaps absorb him. His grip is tight today, pinching nerves and grinding bones as he holds Maraich’s wrists high over his head. He’s starting slow, with a press of lips against Maraich’s temple, almost chaste.

Maraich can’t hold still tonight; he’s shifting, trying to find a more comfortable position. It’s the kind of thing that always makes Bancoran react, because Ban hates to have a lover’s concentration on something other than himself. He needs the constant attention during this act, the pliable lover moving to his every whim. Maraich suspects that his charismatic powers have spoiled him.

However, no one has had cause to complain—Bancoran has his techniques down flawlessly. And his greatest gift (or curse) is his ability to fall completely in love with whomever he’s with at the moment. It worries Maraich, how completely Bancoran lets it consume him; it’s one of the reasons why his jealousy is so fierce. He doesn’t want to lose Ban, even for the short time he spends with his other boys.

Bancoran stops Maraich’s squirming, leans in and kisses him deeply, with a sharp and near-painful click of teeth and clash of tongues. This is the point where Maraich’s mind begins to race with an overflow of information. He imagines what will happen if he moves his knee this way, or bites that slope of shoulder that is just out of range. And he watches. He watches Bancoran’s pale skin flush, feels the muscles moving just below the damp skin. They’re both warm, alive. He wonders which is louder: the pounding of blood in his ears, or their uneven breathing.

Today is different, though. Perhaps it’s Bancoran’s distant mood, perhaps it’s the strange weather. Maraich suspects that it’s the third man in the room, the one only in their minds. He can’t quite reach Bancoran, no matter how tightly their bodies press together. He remembers the airport, and he remembers the fog. It was soft, muffling; it leached everything of color. And through that dream-like atmosphere they ran, frantic and rushed. Chunks of time seemed to fall away, everything moved in antique, stopgap motion, like a silent film. _Click. Click. Click-Click._ Bancoran killed a man that day.


End file.
